Survivor
by xCullenxCrazyx
Summary: First 28 days of Rage Virus, told from a teenagers viewpoint...Starts on day five...Rated for language
1. Prologue

Survivor

Preface

'_This is Lisa Hillary reporting live for BBC news from downtown London, where biochemist and general practitioner of medicine Dr. George Granger claims to have found the cure for cancer. Having already tested his substance on animals the likes of rodents, small mammals and some species of primates, today Dr. Granger proudly announces the successful testing of the cure on a willing human candidate, Mrs Norah Clarks…'_

'_Police say the death of Mrs Norah Clarks, 65 year old widow, is being treated as suspicious due to her recent connection to the trials of new cancer 'cure', developed by biochemist Dr. George Granger…'_

'_Suspicions are being aroused within the British police force today as rioters have taken to the streets of downtown London. Seemingly, these people, mostly in their mid to late twenties and thirties, are out of control, enraged; major scientists claim that Mrs Norah Clarks, the woman recently found dead in her London home due to an accidental overdose of the drug she had been injected with by the biochemist Dr. George Granger, has somehow spread an airborne virus which kills it's victim instantly, only for said victim then to come back to life, filled with blind, cannibalistic anger…'_

'_..This infection, having now earned itself the nickname 'The Rage Virus', is causing widespread panic in the streets of London. Police say that there is no need for such confusion – the rioters and others suspected to fall prey to the infection are being carefully quarantined and chemists are searching desperately for the cure…_

'_..And whilst you are being instructed not to panic, it would be safest for all in the vicinity of London and the surrounding country to stock up on food and water and barricade your homes…_

'_Police say an evacuation of the country is imminent – the infection is quickly taking hold of England and now even the British police force fear that there is not much can be done about controlling it…Whilst the disease is no longer suspected to be airborne, it can be passed on through contact with an infected individual, and we urge you to stay away from all those suspected of carrying the disease until police give further notice…'_

'_We strongly advise you to pack as much food and water as you can into your cars and head straight for your nearest airport – free flights are being arranged every five hours to France, Spain, and Norway…'_

'_Get out of your houses as quickly as possible and head STRAIGHT FOR YOUR NEAREST AIRPORT…_

'_Run…'_

'_RUN!'_


	2. Note

N/B - Okay

I have to admit I took some liberties with the details of the story in my prologue - such as it being suspected as airborne, etc. But I didn't start this story to stick rigidly to the original plot - I started it because 28 Days Later is a very good movie, and because I'd been interested in the research into epidemics etc. behind it, for some time beforehand

Just so you guys know...

And on to the first chapter of Survivor


	3. Chapter One

Survivor

Chapter One

The world is ending.

I am Haylie, and if you asked me my second name right now, I would quite cheerfully slice you in half.

It's strange…You see so many newspapers, TV programs, so many books…All devoted to the worlds imminent death. Global warming, the melting of the polar ice caps, a new disease every day, a species wiped out in the blink of an eye…

But it wasn't flooding. It wasn't over eating, or Mickey Mouse or any of the other things that we were told would kill us before the lack of oxygen would.

It was the cure for one of the biggest killers in the world.

And it's brought on a premature doomsday. The streets of London are bright with sunlight, and quiet, no traffic to block up the streets, no people, no noise…

It is silent, and that scares me more than a riot would. This silence signals the end, the finale of everything, and I would prefer for crowds, surges, oceans of Infected to press forward at this moment, simply to break this apocalyptic silence.

I walk these silent avenues stealthily, my katana held loosely by my side. The cold steel of my sawn off handgun is tangy against my hip, where it is held by the tight waistband of my dirty blue jeans, torn and frayed, but comfortable, and easy to run in. I have yanked up the hood of my navy blue jumper. This is not practical, but it is something I want to do. If my death is to rush me side on, I don't want to fight it anymore. I look disparagingly at my sweater. It too is grimy and worn, but it is comfortable, and if nothing else large – once belonging to my brother, it hangs well down my thighs.

My faded Converse make a dull, slapping rhythm against the concrete, and I concentrate on this to keep me going. Thud...Thud…Thud…In time with the placid beating of my heart, it keeps me breathing, reminds me to live.

I must find shelter soon. This…War, this conflict of human and the no longer human, has been raging for an estimated five days now, and for four of them I have holed up in an old Odeon cinema with my family…My mother, brother, father, and baby sister. Three Infected…One helpless, unable to defend herself from my unsteady gunshots.

I would have kept her alive. I would. But she was a risk, prone to Infection, and a burden at that, an extra mouth to keep fed, an extra body to keep from the cannibalistic mouths of the Infected.

Besides which, what kind of a world is this to keep a child in? She's safer wherever she is now.

At the thought of my family, my throat closes over and my visions blurs, and try as I might, I cannot stay quiet. My breath comes in gasps, pants, howls, sobs tearing themselves from my throat, unaccompanied by wasted tears. I know I must keep on, but whilst my mind screams, my body hunches over, bending at the waist until my nose is close to my thighs and I must resemble a…I don't know what.

I clear my mind of thoughts of them, and straighten with difficulty. It is as if my chest is fracturing – my heart was its foundation, and by ripping that out, I have left my ribcage fragile and prone to fractures. It's difficult to hold myself together, but I must. And to do so, I must develop steel-hard armour around myself. I must harden to survive. I have to.

I shallow my breathing and pull down my hood as a nuisance, casting a quick glance around. No Infected rush me from behind, and I'm grateful for that. Despite three years of fencing, I am still clumsy with my katana in combat, and those last four were flukes, I am sure. I should not be so lucky with the fifth.

I stop outside an empty, long looted café, and gaze at my reflection in the cracked and dirty front window. Things seem to have gotten run down awfully quickly, for infection to have broken amongst the masses seven days ago and for the country to have been evacuated five.

I look at myself hard. It is the first time I have seen my own reflection in five days, and it's a revelation to me – I expected my hardships and troubles, my pain to be reflected in my facial expressions, my features. But the small, crooked nose is the same; the high cheekbones, thought shadowed with bruising, and stubborn jaw, and the tilt of my green eyes have not changed. My eyeliner is smudged, miraculously still there from day one. My mouth has settled itself into a crooked grimace, and I attempt to rearrange it, with little success. I look to my tangled chestnut hair and roll my eyes in disgust. It is scraggly and needs washed, but it still looks thick and untameable. I tie it back in an elastic from my wrist and pull my hood up again. With the shadows cast from that, my eyes do look haunted, and I can see pain in their pupils. But I shake my head – now is not the time for vanity. I must move, and quickly.

I look to the large shopping mall in front of me, wondering if it is a suitable place to bed for the night. It looks empty enough, the windows gaping and deserted, hollow – the lack of human life inside it has resulted in a lack of life outside it. I move towards it cautiously, keeping my ears open for the sound of footsteps, or rattled breathing.

By some miracle, I manage to get inside with no difficulty, bar the fact that I jump at every little sound. I stalk into a small café, narrowing my eyes and casting a wary glance around the small, off white kitchen quickly, before riding the fridge, disappointed but not surprised to find it empty. I look to the bathroom for security, and find it in the form of a loose floor tile, which is fairly easy to lift aside and to slide myself into a small space beneath the floor. I drop my large army-issue green backpack down into it, and my katana, before taking a deep breath and sliding my body down into the dark.


End file.
